


This Ain't Gonna Feel Like a Love Tap

by dcjuris



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Sam/OFC - Freeform, mentions of BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 14:08:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19086631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcjuris/pseuds/dcjuris
Summary: Sam experiences sub drop, leading the brothers to admit a truth or two.Set sometime after they move into the Bunker. Doesn't matter when.Fic title is a line from the Eminem song "Venom."





	This Ain't Gonna Feel Like a Love Tap

Sam huffs and shifts around restlessly in the passenger seat, wipes his palms on his jeans. He settles for all of a second before he's back to squirming while scratching his neck.

"Dude. What the hell is up with you? You pick up fleas?"

Sam blinks at him. "What?"

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the road. "You're fidgeting like a two-year-old. You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Dean shrugs and reaches to turn the radio on, but Sam blocks him.

"Actually, you know what? No. That's a lie. I'm not fine."

"Okay. So… Spill."

"I um… I have…" Sam twists his fingers together in his lap. It's a gesture Dean hasn't seen him make since he was a kid.

"Genital herpes?"

Sam lets out a choked laugh. "What? No! Gross, Dean!"

"Then what? It ain't chicken pox—you had those when you were six."

"You remember that?"

"Course I do. You were a holy terror. Couldn't shut you up. Dad wanted to drown you in calamine." It earns him another laugh—a sincere one this time. Sam's humor is short-lived, but Dean will take what he can get. "So?"

Sam shakes his head. "It's nothing."

"Don't give me that. It's obviously something." He smacks the side of Sam's leg. "C'mon. You're always after me to talk more. So. Let's talk." 

"I don't—"

"Well, it's not herpes. Clap? Gonorrhea? Fuck, it's not scabies is it? 'Cause that shit's contagious, Sam!"

"It sub drop, okay Dean?"

Dean's brain skids to a halt. "Come again?"

"Sub drop. It's—"

"I know what it is."

Sam stares wide-eyed at him, but doesn't say anything.

He thought they were exclusive—that you and me against the world meant you and _only_ me. Betrayal wars with his instinct to take care of Sam. Instinct wins. He's dealt with sub drop a long time ago, not personally, but with the friend of a friend—a young woman named Molly. He doubts Sam will want all the same things she did—please God don't let him want to watch "Fried Green Tomatoes" on repeat—but at least he has a starting point. He flips the turn signal on and guides Baby into the right lane.

"Where are we going?"

"Gotta make a pit stop."

"I really just want to go home."

"Yeah, well my bladder really just wants to go, so we're stopping for a minute."

Sam levels at glare at him before turning back to look out the window.

Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel, debating on how far he can push the conversation. Too much too soon and Sam will shut down. Not enough soon enough and Sam will think Dean doesn't care. "So…where's the Dom?"

"What?"

"The Dom… The…." Man? Woman? "Person who let you walk off without checking on you."

Sam doesn't refute the accusation, and that settles like a stone in Dean's gut. "Wichita."

"Wichita? As in three days ago Wichita?"

"Is there another Wichita we've been to lately?"

It's on the tip of Dean's tongue to ask why Sam didn't say anything sooner, but he swallows it down. It'll just make Sam feel worse. He spots a sign for a twenty-four hour convenience store and takes the next exit. He'd prefer to go somewhere with more options, but if he takes too long it'll get Sam's hackles up. He makes a mental list of supplies—fruit if he can find it, oatmeal raisin cookies (Sam's favorite, the weirdo), some kind of juice. He can borrow some candles and incense from the Bunker's supply closet.

He steers into the parking lot and turns to Sam. "I'm gonna grab some pie. Want anything?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Okay. I'll be right back. Don't wander off."

***

Sam's never been happier to see the Bunker. He offers to help Dean unload the armada of crap he bought, but Dean waves him off. Inside he heads for the kitchen.

He jerks the fridge door open and frowns. He's hungry, but there's nothing in here that peaks his interest. He should've asked Dean to pick something up, but he honestly doesn't even know what he wants.

He hates this feeling—caring about everything but nothing all at once. He feels brittle, like if he moves the wrong way his body will give out on him. He wants to run to Dean, wants to crawl inside his big brother and hide until the lights aren't so bright, the sounds aren't so loud, and the world isn't so painful. He shifts and scratches at his wrist. His clothes are like sandpaper against his skin. Everything is terrible.

"C'mere." Dean stands in the kitchen doorway.

Sam sighs. "I'm really tired, Dean."

"C'mere." Dean holds a hand out to him. "Just trust me, okay?"

He wants to argue, but he can't muster the energy. He takes Dean's hand and follows him down the hall to one of the individual bathrooms. Dean steps aside as they enter, and Sam's eyes are suddenly full of tears.

The soft glow of candlelight gleams off the porcelain tub filled with steamy, bubble-fluffed water. Dean's dragged a crate over by the tub, and it's topped with a plate of strawberries, blackberries, and blueberries. The warm scent of sandalwood incense hangs in the air.

"What…" He turns to his brother. "What is this?"

"What's it look like? It's a bath. Go on. Get in. Don't come out until your feet look like prunes." He pats Sam on the shoulder and turns to go.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"Try not to drown."

***

It's not like Dean's making a conscious effort to tiptoe around Sam or anything. It's just that he's hyperaware of his brother. Every move Sam makes resonates with him, every sigh slides along his skin. The more time passes, the more betrayal keeps bubbling up. By the next afternoon, caretaker mode is all but gone, leaving Dean bone tired and bruised. He finds Sam in the library. Everything in his brain tells him to abort the mission—wait, give Sam time and space. But his heart is louder. His heart wants answers. "Hey."

Sam looks up at him. "Hey."

"How're you feelin'?"

"Better." Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out, smiles. "Thanks for last night."

And now that he has confirmation of Sam's improved mood, his brain gets on board with his heart. "Can we uh…" Dean rubs the back of his neck. "Can we talk?"

"Of course." Sam sits his book down and looks up at him.

"I gotta ask… I thought we were together."

"We are." Sam nods.

"Like, _together_ , together. Bonnie and Clyde. Kirk and Spock."

Sam chuckles. "We are."

"I know we haven't been… I mean, I'm not completely clued in, obviously, but I thought we were exclusive."

"We are."

"So... What happened in Wichita?"

Sam's eyes go wide. "You think I _cheated_ on you?"

"Am I supposed to think something else?"

"Jesus fucking… You…" Sam shoves himself to his feet, overturning his chair. "Fuck you, Dean!"

Dean jerks away from the fury in Sam's eyes. "Look, I get that you're feeling off—"

"This isn't sub drop, asshole. This is me being furious with you because you're a fucking _moron_! I didn't fucking _cheat_ on you." Sam storms past him. The Bunker door bangs open and slams closed in his wake.

What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened.

***

Dean cooks dinner. Sam doesn't show. He makes Sam a plate, wraps it in foil, and puts it away in the fridge. He cleans up the kitchen and heads for their…his?...room. He's halfway through three episodes of Nailed It when he hears the Bunker door.

Sam walks by the bedroom door a few minutes later.

"Dinner's in the fridge!" Dean shouts after him, because if Sam thinks he's an asshole, he might as well act like one.

Sam shuffles back to the door. "Can I come in?"

Dean gestures to the space between them.

Sam steps inside but doesn't move from the doorway. "Her name is Alice."

Alice. Dean lets the name slide around in his brain for all of two seconds before he decides he hates her. He's not sure if it hurts more or less that she's a she.

"I didn't have sex with her."

He stays silent. Questions barrel up, but he pushes them down.

"I uh… I found her online. She's a professional Domme."

At least he went to someone with experience.

"Do you want to know?"

Dean meets his eyes. "Do you want to tell me?"

Sam flinches under his gaze.

"You don't have to."

"I paid her to tie me up and flog me."

Dean manages not to react to that. Part of him recoils at the idea of anyone hurting Sam. Part of him perks up at the idea of Sam liking it. But the majority of him just wants to track Alice down and beat her to a pulp for putting her hands on what's his.

"I couldn't get into it, though. I tried. I wanted to. But…"

"But?"

"But she wasn't you. I realized it wouldn't work unless it was you. I safe worded and she let me go. She tried to comfort me, but I wouldn't let her. I left."

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted that?"

"How I was supposed to, Dean? _Hey, you know how you tortured people in Hell and Lucifer tortured me? I kinda wanna role-play that._ I mean, really?"

He's right—it does sound seven different kids of wackado. "You gotta know I'd do anything for you."

"Which is exactly why I couldn't ask you. Dean…" Sam lets out a huff and runs his hand through his hair. "I saw what torturing Alastair did to you."

And that's another valid point. But Sam's got it twisted. Torturing Alastair didn't fuck him up because he hated doing it—that wasn't the reason. Silence stretches between them, starts to feel more and more like a gulf they'll never bridge. Sam's afraid of his reaction, and nobody clams up in fear of Dean's wrath tighter than Sam.

"Sometimes, I miss it."

Sam's head snaps up, his gaze lasers in on Dean. He watches Dean carefully. Dean knows he's looking for tells—anything to indicate a lie.

"Not often. But sometimes, you know, someone pisses me off. Like that dickhead who called you a faggot at the grocery store. I look at someone like that, and I think, this jackoff has no idea who he's dealing with. I could rip him apart without breaking a sweat. I could make him do anything I wanted. Hell, I could fuck him dry and he'd thank me for it, because he'd know there's always something worse."

Sam swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing.

"It's fucked up. I'm fucked up. And the truth is…" Dean swipes his hand over his face. "The truth is, Sammy, I don't know how far I could go. I don't know if I could give you enough or too much. But I'd try."

"It doesn't…repulse you?"

"Am I down with Wichita Alice? No. Not one little bit. I’m not mad at you—"

"No?"

"No. I was never mad, Sam. I was confused. I was… I was fucking devastated when I thought… But I wasn't mad. I just… Wanted to know how I could do better for you." And there it is—he'll never say _no_ to Sam. There's nothing he won't do to keep Sam—no boundary he won't cross.

Sam sniffs and swipes at his eyes. "Fucking… God, Dean. I'm terrified you'll think I'm a monster and you're terrified you can't be enough of one."

"Yeah, we're a pair of codependent freaks, baby boy."

Sam chokes on a whimper.

"What?"

"Just wasn't sure I'd ever hear that again."

"Talk about codependent." Dean rises and Sam meets him halfway, clings like the giant octopus he is, shoves his face into Dean's neck. Another whimper escapes, and Dean holds him tighter, grips the back of his neck and works the strained muscles. "Okay, Sammy. Okay. It's okay. I gotcha."

It's a good five minutes and a soaked through flannel before Sam raises his head. "So, I might still be in drop."

"Ya think?" Dean gives him a gentle shove. "Let's go get you some fruit and I'll draw you another bath. Sound good?"

Sam nods, still trying to dry his face.

"We'll talk about it all in a couple days. Do some research. Set some ground rules."

"Yeah?"

"Yep. C'mon." He side steps around Sam and heads down the hall. He still doesn't know if he's up for all this, but he'll try.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

Dean chuckles. "I know."

Sam's hand slips into his. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also a published author. If you like my writing style, check out my published works on Amazon by searching "DC Juris" - that's me. :-)


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